Aiwë
by dolphin4
Summary: Pippin engages in a bit of storytelling.


aiwë

dolphin

The past few nights had been hard for all of them. Worry flitted across every face in camp; the only topics now raised around the fire were hushed reports on Frodo's condition and falsely hopeful speculations on how much further he could go before his strength failed him. There were still so many days left before they had any hope of reaching Rivendell, and the eldest hobbit was worsening daily. 

Aragorn had been told many times by Gandalf that Hobbits were a hardy folk when the need arose-during years spent in quiet vigil over the Shire, Buckland, and Bree, he had seen it for himself more than once-and now again he saw that inner strength that set the Hobbits apart from so many of their larger counterparts, Men. In the eyes of the three perian who remained well in body, if not in heart, he could see the way the flame of hope kept flickering as the breezes of despair threatened to damp it out: and yet, it never quite finished dying. Whatever else you may learn from this journey, he told himself, remember never to question what the Grey Pilgrim says, for he is usually right. Hobbits really are most amazing creatures.

Pippin hovered uncertainly for a moment, then sat gingerly down on the ground beside his ill cousin, trying his best to be quiet and not disturb the little rest that Frodo was getting. Laying his blanket beside him, he turned his attention to the other hobbit, wondering what he was supposed to do now. Aragorn had said that someone needed to keep vigil over Frodo while he took first watch, because the most sheltered place in the camp, the place where he had put Frodo to keep him out of as much of the night air as he could, was all the way across the clearing from the boulder he intended to use as a sentry-post. So Pippin, knowing how tired the others were, had volunteered. So far he hadn't been much of an asset on this trip and he wanted to help if he could. He had never taken care of a sick person before, but Strider had said only to call if Frodo looked much worse, so he really hadn't thought there would be much more to it than just keeping an eye out; but now that he was here, seeing close up how sickly pale and utterly miserable his friend looked, he wanted to do something more than that. Surely there had to be something that would make Frodo feel better? Maybe not. But he could at least try his best.

Frodo's eyes fluttered open just then, the strange, almost flat quality of them making Pippin shudder involuntarily.

"Frodo?"

Pale, unfocused blue eyes searched blindly for the source of the voice, so Pippin laid a hand on Frodo's forehead, letting him know where he was while taking his temperature too. "It's me, Pippin," he murmured in what he hoped was a soothing manner, wincing at the heat that emanated from the other's forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Cold," Frodo whispered faintly, his eyes rolling oddly before closing. "It's so cold..."

Pippin frowned. He certainly didn't feel cold to the touch. "Do you want another blanket?"

The only response he got was a shuddery gasp. Anxiously, he laid his own blanket across his cousin's shivering form and tucked the edges in. "Is that better?"

"So cold..." Frodo whispered again. Pippin wasn't at all sure that his cousin even knew that he was there. He deliberated a moment, then curled up around the older hobbit, hoping fervently that this Wraith-sickness wasn't catching. Maybe he could leech some warmth into Frodo. Meanwhile, he thought hard, casting back to his childhood-not so hard considering it was but hardly over-trying to recall other ways that his own mother had made him feel better during illnesses. A bath? No, he couldn't do that, not here. A song would awaken the others, but perhaps a story would help? But which one? Bilbo's tale of the dragon was far too long, and the little fairy-tales his mother had told him were too babyish. He sighed softly and tried to make one of his own.

"Long ago, in the great forest of-" he searched quickly for a name and put in the first one that came to mind-"Mirkwood, there lived a falcon. A big old-" He paused. No, that didn't sound storyish enough. The tale underwent some quick revising, and he started the sentence again, vaguely aware that Frodo was not listening at all. He unconsciously put out a hand and began stroking Frodo's curls as he told the story, the way his mother had used to do when he was sick or afraid of the dark or just in need of some company before bed.

"A huge, ancient falcon, who had lived in the wood for all his life. One day, in his scavenging for food," Pippin smiled at the thought of food, "he came across an Elven prince, who was also hunting for his meal and that of his family.

"'How fare you in your hunting, good prince?' the falcon asked, lighting on a branch.

"'Alas,' the prince replied sorrowfully, 'I can find no game, and my father the king awaits my return with many guests who desire fresh meat. How goes thy hunting, friend?'

"'My hunting goes well,' the falcon replied proudly. 'I have eaten my fill of meat. But now I seek some companionship, for I have grown lonely in my solitary eyrie, and I find that I desire someone to speak with. Will you stay a while, good prince?'

"'Nay,' the prince said, 'I cannot stay. My father commands my presence at his table, with game.'

"The falcon was saddened by this, but he had a sharp mind and a quick one. 'May I come with you in your hunting then, prince?' he asked. "And perhaps I may see something that you have missed. For a hawk's eyes are revered even as an Elf's are.'

"The Elf prince agreed, and together they set off hunting."

Pippin trailed off, noticing for the first time his cousin's breathing, which had evened out and sounded almost calm. He smiled in the dark, still stroking Frodo's hair without thinking about it.

"And what happened next?" queried a thin, breathy voice, making Pippin jump. It took him a moment to realize that it had been Frodo, his voice weak because of the fever.

"Are you awake?" he asked quietly, surprised into stopping his hand's movements.

Frodo nodded just barely. "Your voice is very nice," he replied, his own still coming out reedy from lack of control over his throat muscles. "Go on, please, if you're not too tired." He blinked slowly and sleepily. "It helps the coldness...to go away."

Pippin nodded. "Alright, then. Let me see...They set off hunting," he repeated, beginning the stroking again, much to Frodo's relief and hidden satisfaction. "And before long the falcon and the prince had struck up an arrangement. The falcon, small and sharp of eye, could fly in and out in tight places where the Elf could not go as easily, spying out game that the prince would have missed, and in return the prince could give the bird companionship. Only a little time had passed before the pair had enough meat for the Elf to say goodbye and return to his father's home.

"The next day, they met again by chance in a clearing, and again they hunted together and went their own ways. But as days went by, both began to seek out the clearing whenever they went out, and it soon became custom that they should meet there every day to hunt together. And ever after, the Elves have been on the best of terms with all birds."

The small hobbit let his voice trail off again as the story drew to a close. His cousin's breathing had been easy for the entire rest of the little tale; Pippin had listened to it in with one ear while he spun the words, and he felt fairly certain that Frodo was asleep. He shifted gently to look, and it was true! Frodo was sleeping soundly, his exhaustion overcoming him as soon as the chill of the wraithwound was relieved. Pippin allowed himself a brief smile of joy and a small amount of pride at his successful first foray into nursing before snuggling more tightly into his cousin's side and falling into dreams.

Aragorn could not help but smile when he woke the youngest hobbit in the morning. He had stolen the blankets in reverse during the night; they were now all bunched up around Frodo, who was drowsing, his breathing quiet and, although not normal by a good deal, at least easier than it had been the night before. Pippin himself was curled around his older cousin, unconsciously trying to get warm in the absence of his blanket. Aragorn spared a moment to look at the picture they made before he had to wake them and set off once more. He shook his head in wonder.

"Aye, my old friend," he told Gandalf. "Most amazing, indeed."

'Aiwë' means 'little bird' in Quenya, or High-Elvish. I was thinking of the peregrine falcon, and the fact that Pippin himself is not that big. It all came down in my head to him being a little bird; thus the story and the title. The story he tells also comes from my personal perception of Pippin. The way Tolkien wrote him, he seems to have inherited a great deal from one particular strain of ancestral Hobbits, the Fallohides, who were known for their love of hunting over gardening. (They were also known for their love of adventure and of trees.)

I assume that in the Shire they would not call the 'peregrine' falcon by that title, as that is our name for it; so Pippin is not intentionally telling a story about himself. My fic just turned out that way.


End file.
